


Mathematics

by Kaydon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, 5+1 Things, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Slice of Life, single men doing domestic things, without the 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 14:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaydon/pseuds/Kaydon
Summary: Five things John Watson wishes he had known before signing the lease to 221B, AKA the reason why John may be losing his mind. A humorous look at domestic life on Baker Street.





	Mathematics

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written between series one and two, and posted on FFN until now. Only minor grammatical updates made. Please let me know what you think.

1\. Sherlock has as unending cash flow, even though he never gets paid for cases.

When Mike Stamford introduced John Watson to Sherlock Holmes, John assumed that Sherlock was just as short on money as he himself was. Living off of an army pension was fine if one was okay with living in the half-way house for injured war vets that John was currently in, but it was not, strictly speaking, terribly acceptable if one was wanting to move out as quickly as he did. He needed a flat-share because he was horribly short on money, and when Sherlock said that he had his eye on a "nice place in central London that we should be able to afford together," it was a natural conclusion for John to assume that Sherlock had similar finances to himself.

It was difficult for John to pay his half of the bills, even when his flat-mate took them to eat at places where neither of them were required to pay (not that Sherlock ate anyway, but hey, that's another story for another day, and something that John's therapist would no doubt find as fascinating as she had John's cured limp) and picked up the cab fare six times in a row. Out of an army-born sense of duty, or the fact that John suspected Sherlock might be allergic to the local Tesco, John took it on himself to pay for all of the food they bought, even though it wasn't much because the kitchen in the flat was rarely in a condition that could be called "food safe."

It was really his row with the chip-and-pin machine that set him off, when his flat-mate, who hadn't even moved from the chair, flippantly gave him his card to use for the shopping. When he returned, this time shopping in hand, John got half-way through an awkward appeal for a loan, and less than an hour later he had a check for five thousand pounds in his wallet, which magically spouted Sherlock's flippant signature three days later, still firmly tucked between the only two bank notes in John's wallet.

Really, John thinks as he deposits the money, the designer coat and the Stradivarius tucked in a leather case beside the bookshelf should have been a clue that Sherlock had enough to get by.

2\. Sherlock cannot cook. He can, however, burn microwave soup.

As far as John was concerned, Sherlock never, ever did anything that one might conceivably call "housework." It came as no surprise to John, then, that whenever Sherlock actually wanted home-cooked food, it was John who did the cooking. It was John who made the tea, John who washed the dishes, John who did the shopping, John who did the laundry, John who dusted, John who cleaned the floors, John who scrubbed the toilet, John who washed the shower and John who bloody made dinner on the rare occasion that Sherlock seemed to recall that he was human enough to require sustenance.

So when he exited the cab and entered 221B on this particular day, John wasn't expecting anything special from Sherlock. Certainly not home cooked food. Whatever John expected, it was not what he got. What he got was the fire alarm in the flat blaring and the kitchen dripping floor to ceiling like a drenched rat. "Sherlock what the hell-" John broke off as he spied the source of the problem.

"I made you soup John."

"Did you read the instructions?"

"No. It seemed a fairly simple process. I was mistaken."

"…You microwaved the can."

"Chinese?"

"Yeah."

They turned to leave the flat, the smoldering remains of Sherlock's failed attempt at dinner in the microwave.

"Happy birthday John."

3\. Sherlock finds his "experiments" of paramount importance. Nothing will change his mind.

John was dead tired. He had been up all night following Sherlock on a mad dash through some of London's less-then-stellar streets, and he had to work a long shift. When he sits down in his armchair with a cup of tea, it is a big relief. Until his taste buds revolt and he spews tea all over Mrs. Hudson's carpet.

"Something the matter John?"

John eyed the cup of tea with as much trust as he would Mycroft's umbrella sword. "I think the refrigerator may be in need of repairs."

"Why?"

"The milk's spoiled."

"How does milk spoil?"

John gave him a look that Sherlock had deemed his but-it's-the-solar-system look. "It gets too warm."

"Don't worry, the refrigerator is working fine."

"But the mi-"

"I must apologize. It was crucial to my observations that Mr. Richmond's left thigh be chilled for several hours and I was unaware that that the counter was unacceptable as a storage house for milk. I returned the milk to its proper place before you were due home, as I didn't want to upset you."

"Well that backfired."

"Clearly."

John held out the mug. "Tea?"

4\. Sherlock was serious when he said he sometimes doesn't talk for days on end. He will, however, substitute the violin.

John turned over again. A cab stopped outside the flat across the street. There was a man getting into it. He was probably returning home to his wife after leaving his girlfriend's place, judging by the- "dammit, I'm turning into him."

He flipped over again. Bach. Third Concerto. Dammit, he was going crazy. Turn. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs and the distinctive pit-patter of her footfall suggested she was carrying something heavy, most likely the shopping as it was Wednesday and she preferred do her shopping midweek, thereby avoiding the bustle of the weekend.

John turned over again, paused for a minute then, "OH BLOODY HELL!" He flung himself out of bed and didn't even bother with a dressing gown or his house-slippers, he just catapulted down the stairs in his sleeping shorts, forgetting he had ripped his t-shirt off because it was too bloody hot outside to actually wear clothes. His hair was dark with sweat from the July heat, or perhaps it was from his temper, which was currently running like the inside of their furnace in December. Well, maybe not theirs, because Sherlock rarely remembered to pay the gas bill. "SHUT IT UP. JUST PUT THE DAM VIOLIN DOWN AND _SPEAK!" _Breathing hard from the adrenaline rush of screaming at his mute flat mate, John turned around and fled for the confines of his bedroom.

As such, he didn't hear the amused chuckle that was the first sound Sherlock had made in over three days as he put the violin back in its case.

5\. Sherlock irons his shirts. And John's jumpers.

John came home from the surgery mercifully early, because the cold weather was hell on his war injuries and he wanted nothing more than to curl up on the sofa in his favorite jumper and moan pitifully until Sherlock convinced Mrs. Hudson to make him a cup of tea and one of them unearthed some kind of magical cure for chronic pain.

The flaw in his plan came when he realized that his favorite jumper was not, in fact, hanging in his closet where he was almost certain he had placed it when he took it out of the wash this morning. "Great." He said, catching the eye of the John reflected in the mirror when a quick scan of the room did not turn up the missing clothing. "I can't even find my jumper. I must be going nuts."

He could have sworn that mirror-John replied with "Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness."

"I'm not talking to myself, I'm talking to you," John snarled as he stomped out of his room, down the stairs and into Sherlock's.

Only to find the consulting detective humming some vastly outdated piece of music, hovering over an ironing board, applying delicate heat to his favorite purple button-down with mathematical precision, every one of John's freshly laundered jumpers hanging on the rack of clothes already pressed.

Perhaps, John thought as he made a conscious effort to close his mouth and avert his eyes but failed on both accounts, mirror-John had a good point.


End file.
